


Learning Conjuration

by Zikul



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Gaslighting, Gender Identity, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Other, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Victim Blaming, depictions of violence, institutional corruption
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-07 11:20:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14670024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zikul/pseuds/Zikul
Summary: On advice from Alberic Litte, Vazil seeks out Olyn Seran to pursue further studies in Conjuration. When Olyn Seran turns out to be just the kind of person you'd expect a Molag Bal worshipper to be, and everything goes downhill, Vazil finds that there's no one to dampen their fall; The Mages' Guild is too busy protecting its own reputation to admit any responsibility at all, and as if the Guild's betrayal wasn't enough, Vazil is now the misfortunate target of assassins, no doubt sent by Molag Bal himself.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This, the first chapter, is the only chapter in which an actual rape scene takes place. It is not a fetishized rape scene, and it's not very long and I tried to keep it non-graphic. I tend to think you could likely skip this chapter if you do not want to read that particular part.
> 
> For now, I am using female pronouns for Vazil, because that's what they refer to themselves as at this point in time. Bare in mind that they are in fact nonbinary (as is the author of this thing).
> 
> It's going to be some time before we get to see Dremora close up, but considering this is set to start off just before the Oblivion Crisis, I think it's safe to say that once we get to it, there's going to be a lot of them.
> 
> I use canon and headcanon liberally. The games I treat as canon are Morrowind, Oblivion and Skyrim, because I have not played the rest.

It felt inapproperiate to arrive to such a place at midday - what with sunrays dripping sharply through the foilage above, painting the statue of Molag Bal in a careless golden display - but such was the flight of Akatosh, that it bent just as little to the aesthetic ideals of mortal men as it did for the Daedra themselves. As far as Vazil was concerned this entire trip had been everything she hadn’t expected, the season of flowers and butterflies had ambushed her, and the glittering beads of water still resting in the grass were enough to render the entire scene laughable.

 

“Are you lost?” came the inevitable question, asked to her by a cranky looking Dunmer, whose attire didn’t strike her as entirely Balish, either.

“That’s what I’ve been asking myself the entire way here,” she answered and raised her left eyebrow, “I _was_ sent here to find one Olyn Seran, follower of Molag Bal. I had not expected his and his Lord’s lair to be so…” she gesticulated, and the Dunmer grinned.

“Deceptive?” he guessed and turned to walk her over to the altar.

“I _was_ going to say _‘ironic’_ , but I suppose _‘deceptive’_ works just as well,” at that, she got a hum for an answer.

“And you are here to join us in our duties to Lord Molag Bal?” presumed the Dunmer, which wasn’t entirely strange a guess, even if it were incorrect.

“I seek to learn Conjuration,” next to her, the other’s step became slower and a bit stiffer.

“So, the Guild can’t give you what I have?” he asked with malice, as if he was already plotting something - which likely was the case. She pursed her lips.

“And can you?” she made sure to seed a challenge and tone of doubt in her voice, a way of speaking she more often than not credited her Altmer side for - although, admittedly, the Dunmer side might have had a finger in that trait, too.

“I am not a servant of Hermeaus Mora,” Seran dictated and straightened up, folding his hands behind his back and glancing at her in a way she decidedly didn’t like, “and I don’t seek payment in gold. Not for the time being.”

 

They came to a halt in front of the statue, its aggressive stance towering over them in a sun-specked spectacle.

“If you wish to serve me and learn from me, you must first do a favour for my Lord. Amir, if you would be so kind,” he stepped aside and allowed for a Redguard to take his place. The man had looked pleasant, if it weren’t for the tinge of hardness hiding in his eyes - Vazil bewared of it, but smiled back, nonetheless.

“We’ll see if you’ll do - you wish to commune with Bal?” he asked like he already believed she’d fail, arrogantly crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the monument as if it were of little importance.

“It seems I am left with no choice,” muttered Vazil and the other’s lips spread wide into a grin.

“Non-consent is half the joy,” he chukled and looked her over, from top to toe nodding to himself in approval, “Swords, shoulder pauldrons, leather-and-fabric getup… you’re a Battlemage, aren’t you? Molag Bal could surely use someone with those skills - but first, you must offer him a gift. Just a display to show that it won’t be a waste of time to ask anything of you.” At least for that, Vazil was prepared.

“What about this?” the glass bottle stirred a bit as she lifted it from the bag she carried over her shoulder. The glowing dust inside whirled like snow, almost as if the atronach was still alive.

“Do you have more?” asked Amir, which was most ungrateful of him.

“Are you serious?” to that, Vazil didn’t get an answer, and instead rolled her eyes with a sigh, setting the bottle on the lip of the altar, and digging into the bag again, “I have this,” she lifted a paper package, vaguely stained in brown and red, “but then I want some change - I spent an entire week tracking down the criminal who once bore it in his chest. And the surgery wasn’t very nice, either,” she implied as she set the package on the stone. Finally, Amir seemed appeased.

“I’ll perform the ritual, and then I will function as a relay for his order unto you,” next to him, Seran clapped his hands together with an excited squee, one which silenced quick enough as he realized he’d been the one to make the sound.

 

The day lazed on, and soon the sparks of light were replaced with splatters of dark. Towards sundown, a Khajiit called Yushi joined their numbers, carrying some unknown bundles of meat with her, which they roasted over the fire once it had been set. Vazil didn’t ask what meat it was - she had since long learned not to question Daedra worshippers where the food came from, lest she’d learn something her stomach didn’t need to know.

“He’s not very social, that Molag Bal,” she commented with a head movement towards Amir, who was still stuck initiating the ritual, mumbling to himself in tongues.

“This one thinks perhaps the gift offered was not good enough,” commented Yushi and gnawed some meat off of the bone she was holding.

 

The concept of the very real possibility left the group with a long, awkward silence, at last broken by Seran:

“Why don’t you pull something from Oblivion. Show us what you’re capable of,” he suggested in a way one would give an order. The Khajiit straightened up with ears coned forwards and whiskers spread wide in excitement:

“This one would like to see a scamp!” Seran made a disgruntled sound however, and Yushi sank back on herself with a disappointed snort.

“What about a Daedroth?” Vazil offered, which gained the approval of at least Seran.

“An Expert level spell. Yes, I’d like to see that,” he grinned ever so smugly and leaned back against the bench behind him, “watch closely, Yushi. If this is a success, it will prove to be entertainment to last us the entire evening.”

 

Molag Bal didn’t answer until night had invaded even the lightest of corners. By then, the fire had burnt down to embers, and the Daedroth had since long been returned to his home. Seran had gotten drunk somewhere amongst the magical delvings, and had, as a direct result, made an unintentional example of why alcohol and Conjuration was a particularly bad combination, as his headless zombie had gotten stuck halfway in the ground, flailing so badly it had sent Yushi’s favourite frying rack deep into some nearby bushes, where it very nearly started a forest fire. Amir, although not exactly surprised, hadn’t very much approved, but shelved his complaint for later as he came to sit next to Vazil.

“The Lord has given you a task,” he cut to the chase and tried to see if there was any food left for him. When there wasn’t, he snatched a half-eaten steak out of Yushi’s hands and pointed it at Vazil, “There is a Priestess of Mara whose temper is far from the smile she carries on her face. She has fought her inner fire far too long - Lord Molag Bal wishes for you to set her free. Her name is Leyaleen, and her camp is not far from here - she carries with her a statue of Mara. You must desecrate this statue. Taunt her. When she snaps and attacks you, you’ll let her do so. The Lord will pull you back here when he thinks it necessary - it’s an exercise in trust, too. You’ll have to surrender yourself into His hands, do you think you can do that?” the unpleasant smile had returned to Amir’s lips, and Vazil found herself with no other option but to agree. At least, Vazil  thought to herself, she hadn’t been tasked with killing an innocent.

  


Three days and a very angry priestess later, Vazil found herself back at the shrine. Amir had been the one to greet her, but Seran was quick to take the task as his own, as they now had an agreement to make.

“I have been in need of a target,” he began as they walked out of Amir’s earshot, “I am in the process of perfecting my domination spell, and I need someone to practice it on.” Vazil’s breath got stuck in her throat and she had to fight a fair bit to remain in control of her expression.

“Yeah, sure, handing myself over to the domination spell of a follower of Molag Bal sounds completely and entirely like a good idea,” she shook her head with each word. He had to be stupid if he believed she’d agree to that!

“I could do it without your consent, but somehow, I think you’d be genuinely intrigued by the experience,” there was a gleam to Seran’s eyes now, almost playful - the way a cat was playful with the mouse, Vazil imagined, “You wish to master Conjuration, do you not? Conjuration _is_ domination. And in order to master your domination over those whom you summon, you must first experience what it is to be them. Understand the anger and frustration they feel as they are dragged here to serve us as slaves, understand the feeling of degradation - only once you understand the fine intricacies of what they experience, will you be able to get the most out of your controlling techniques. I too, learned this way,” he smiled and gesticulated to his own chest. Vazil shuddered and hugged herself, a cold sensation had settled in her chest, and for the first time since she sought to pursue Masterhood, she felt doubts. Surely, there must be someone else to teach her?

“I tend to think I have enough theory of mind to imagine those things - I don’t have t-” her voice was cut short, as was her step. No matter how much she tried, she couldn’t bring herself to end the sentence, and then, before she knew what was happening, she found herself on her knees, Seran’s fingertips brushing over the scalp of her head, tangling in her brown-and-black hair.

“Theory is what keeps the Expert from becoming the Master. Now is the time to experience,” her neck craned backwards on its own, and she beheld him, the way he looked at her. She could feel his thoughts, emotions, intents - distantly, not entirely unlike that of a Conjured Deadra, except his desires were becoming her own, his will overriding hers, and the inability to tell herself apart filled her with claustrophobic dread.

 

“You have found a Master in me,” Seran implied as he laid his fingertips against her forehead, trailing down over her cheek. She felt his intentions burn in her blood - his arousal for what he was doing to her echoed in her own body, ached between her legs, bold and hard and it sickened her, “Good,” croaked Seran in approval, “fight me. Try if you can - you won’t succeed, but I like that you struggle. Your mind truly _are_ strong, Battlemage. The harder you fight, the greater the prize for Him.” Something like a purr rose from his throat - a laughter, she realized once it formed into something sharper. It pierced her mind like a thousand daggers, and as he pressed a thumb against the corner of her mouth, she found herself gaping with the willingness of a baby chick expecting a treat from its parent.

 

For how long he degraded her like that, she couldn’t say. Her throat became a blister, her mouth a bleeding mess. The taste of him ingrained in every fibre of her tongue, the scent so far up in her nose that she thought it might never leave. When he released her, she nearly fell over, and then she had nothing better to do than to vomit - and to a small, insignificant degree, she took pleasure in the fact that she’d managed to get some on his shoes.

 

“Now you know how the Daedra feel,” told Seran, as if what he had just done was nothing, “now you know what it is you do to them, and how you can make it worse, should they fight you for control. You have to break them,” he sat on his heels in front of her and reached out a hand to help her steady her head - without hesitation, she swatted at him and staggered backwards, “I do not expect your gratitude, not yet, but even then, why this surprised? You have come to the shrine of Molag Bal, to learn the art of Domination…” he let his voice trail off, and Vazil felt nothing. She wasn’t even there, she was just a distant concept. And she didn’t return until Seran was gone, and Yushi took his place, tending to her face with a rag, humming a lullaby.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for this chapter - violence against genitals. Not glorified, not fetishized and not graphically described.
> 
> What I can promise, though, is that at least we get to see Dremora! And something good happens.

To have been nearly been slain by a priestess and violated by Seran in the same day, put quite a toll on Vazil. She would’ve run away, if not for the Khajiit’s calming purring, the warmth of its fur and the feeling of serenity it emitted. Badly needed sleep was granted, and when next she awoke, atop one of the stone benches, the skies were heavy with clouds and grey like steel. Her stomach growled at her, and Yushi fed her something that tasted of salt and iron - she didn’t question what it was.

 

“You endured,” said Seran somewhere behind her, his hoarse voice sending waves of repulsion through her stomach, “our second lesson will commence.”

“No,” rejected Vazil on instinct, turning around on the bench to look at him - even the colors of his clothes sickened her. His eyebrows shot up, then he fired a disarming smile at her.

“Very well, we shall repeat lesson one until you are ready to move on,” he lifted his hand and she felt his mind encroaching her own, not as strangulating as the night before, but still ever so present. She could tell that he would like to use her again, that it wasn’t unlikely of him to do so. Yushi’s hand on her shoulder weighed heavy.

“This one thinks you do not need a repeat lesson,” said the Khajiit and forced another piece of dried meat into her hand, “this one thinks you wish to proceed to lesson two. This one thinks you spoke out of order, and that you wish to beg forgiveness.”

“I want to leave!” burst Vazil instead, and found herself standing in a moment - not on her own accord.

 

In front of her, Seran held his hand as if he was controlling an invisible marionette, dancing her across the ground, one step at a time, towards him, where she finally knelt.

“You may still change your mind…” his voice was velvet soft and made her throat contract with disgust - all while a part of her, the part of her that was linked with him, wanted nothing but to take him in again, to welcome the rape of Molag Bal, to be possessed entirely.

 

She was going to be stuck in this cycle forever - was she not? As long as she didn’t go along with his lessons, he’d keep her here.

“I wish to proceed to lesson two,” she told him, and her voice failed her, as it was full of regret.

 

And then, it became much easier to breathe, and she was free of his mind and desires.

“You consider me to be morally lesser than yourself,” said Seran as he reached his hand towards her in an offer to help her up, “yet you pursue Conjuration,” she did not take his hand, but instead got up on her own, even though her legs felt soft and unsteady. He lowered his hand and their eyes met - she stared with what she hoped was resolution, but it was impossible to tell exactly what emotion laid in his, “every time you drag a daedra from the Realms to enslave it to your will, you do to them what I did to you. That is why you have to break them - only then will they start to learn to enjoy it. Only then may you proceed to conjure them without spending so much energy on containing them - which leaves more magica for other spells. That is why you are here, is it not? To lessen the strain. To get more power, more control. You wish to learn how to tame them. That is what this lesson will be about. Come with me.”

 

They walked away from the shrine again, past the place where she had been violated, and into a nearby glade.

“I will now set out to summon a lesser dremora, a churl I’ve never summoned before, so that you may see the process for yourself. I want for you to bind the dremora at the same moment as I do - so I will summon him unbound, and then we cast the binding spell at the same time. This way, you will feel and see it all. If you do not abide, you will be punished,” he added the last part almost as if he’d been able to read her mind, and a smug expression crossed his face before he hardened, barking out a short “Ready your spell!” before closing his eyes, searching the void and soon enough the air shivered with heat, and a dremora solidified there, short and clad in only a thin robe, with short hair and just as short horns.

 

Vazil threw the spell before she could stop herself - and then she was there, sharing the link with the Dremora, and with her Master. Seran’s mind worked its way into the Dremora’s mind like a venom. She could tell that he was amplifying the fear and frustration that had come to unrest in the young creature - he made it incapable of speech.

“You have never been summoned to Nirn before,” he said as he walked up to the creature, holding onto its chin with his hand, “unpleasant, cold and dull, is it not?” Then he struck it across the face - once, twice, thrice as well, each smack louder than the last. Vazil winced with each strike, she could feel the pain - it wasn’t as strong as it would have been in a mortal like herself, but it was strong enough to unsettle the inexperienced churl. Soon thereafter, shame started to take over as the dominant feeling, and Seran forced the Dremora to kneel and then, as a display of complete disregard for decency, to undress.

 

The robes fell off of his shoulders like a black waterfall, revealing red and dark patterns, stark contrasts. He wore nothing under those robes - and what was more, was that he appeared to be at least partially female.

“That’s their usual configuration,” explained Seran as he placed the sole of his shoe against the churl’s chest and pressed him backwards until he was displaying his female genitals openly, “Dremora are amongst the daedra who shape themselves as they please, and because they like practicality - and because this one is of Dagon rather than Bal - they tend to go for the configuration that carries the least vulnerability. Male top, female nethers. As if this doesn’t hurt,” he added and removed his foot, just so that he could kick the poor creature so hard that it made Vazil yelp - the pain was nauseating this time, and she could distantly hear the thud as her knees hit the ground and she reeled over, sour flavours gracing her tongue again.

 

He kicked again, this time allowing for the poor creature to vocalize his pain. Vazil felt dizzied.

“Stop it!” she burst as she got up from her position, “This doesn’t teach me anything!”

“I can’t stop teaching you just because you resist getting taught,” snarked Seran, and aimed another kick - though this time, he hit nothing, and after a moment of confusion, he lashed out and laced his fingers around her throat, “you dare dismiss  _ my _ summon? I  _ was  _ going to let you take control over him, I  _ was _ going to let you practice on him, on something easy, but now…” he let her go, and she backed away, “Now you’ll have to practice on this one, instead - ready your binding spell, or he  _ will _ kill you, something I will not in the slightest prevent, if it were to happen.”

 

The Dremora that appeared this time was much different from the last. Wearing a mixture of fabric and metal and wielding twin blades, it was easy for Vazil to figure that he was a Battlemage, much like herself. She threw the spell at him.

 

His mind wrestled hers, and within seconds, his blades were drawn and he hurled himself at her, clearly under Seran’s control.

 

Metal hit metal, and Vazil found that her elven blades were a good match for his daedric ones. Their fight became a dance, they were balanced in talent, and even though he kept the position of aggressor, she eluded him and evaded his pursuit. And yet, even though the clash of blades were second nature to her, and left her with much mental energy to try to dominate his mind, his will wouldn’t budge under hers.

 

Because it wasn’t his will, she realized. Because it was Seran’s will. And the only way she could control this Dremora, was if she at first chased Seran off. So she attacked him, with every last fiber of her mind, fighting in spirit alongside the Dremora in his strife to be rid of his Conjurer.

 

One slip of the tongue was all it took, and the Dremora was free from Seran’s mind - unbound from his tormentor. Still ever so deadly, but no longer focused on her. Instead, he turned his back at her - which was surprising, but in the heat of the moment, she didn’t question it - and headed for Seran. And Seran, busy with bending Vazil to his will, having her point a sword at her own throat, did not react until too late. The Dremora had already skewered him on his blades, and torn his ribcage in two.

 

She couldn’t have stopped him if she’d wanted to. As he turned around, his face was painted in yet another coat of red, and his eyes were set ablaze with the taste of victory. She couldn’t control him, her last effort spent on Seran and her mind halfway inside of his, he was the one to control her in that moment. If he wanted to.

“Return me,” his sibilant voice spoke the words more like a request than an order, “I am needed elsewhere.”

“I-I don’t know where you came from,” answered Vazil in pure honesty.

“Then remove your mind from mine,” bargained the Dremora.

“Trying to trick me into unbinding you?” Vazil clung to her blades.

“Foolish mortal, can’t you tell that you already lack control over me?” he sheathed his weapons and crossed his arms over his chest, “Peryite will send me back, but he can’t do so with your mind in mine. If you do not release me, we will be forced to proceed, which would break your mind. I do not desire this.”

 

She hadn’t meant to do it, but she must have - seconds later he was gone, and she found herself alone with the corpse and a motive for murder. With that, she found that it was a very good moment to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you something good was gonna happen ;)


	3. Chapter 3

The skies started to relent to the force of gravity around midday, and when evening arrived, the rain had gone into a state of ground-hammering violence, as if Molag Bal still had a finger in the game. Farmers were likely exhilarated by the downpour, as the season had been unusually dry so far - normally, Vazil wouldn’t have been persuaded to agree, she would’ve tucked herself away in a cave and waited it out, scowling under her breath, but this was different. She’d undressed, carrying her getup in a bag, and allowed for Kyne to wash her. It was like showering in pebbles, and yet even though it hurt, the pain seemed to strike against the violation she had been under, not at her. The rain soothed the wounds cut in her mind and body, and she found the strength to walk through the entire night, so that when morning spilled the gaze of Magnus through the curtain of water, she found herself at the gates of Chorrol.

 

That her feet would guide her back to the city of the one who had sent her to a follower of Molag Bal had not been a given, other options laid wide open, and the Imperial City wasn’t far - but she wanted to speak to him in person, and somehow, she wasn’t so convinced that Archmage Traven would take any action at all. So to the Guild Hall of Chorrol she marched (her clothes now back on, so to not get arrested by some surly guard who were more than likely to have a bad day, courtesy to the weather).

 

“You!” Alberic had the misfortune of standing right inside the door when Vazil entered, and as she moved swifter than his reaction to her voice, he ended up in a close encounter with the wall, studying the rocks there more closely than he had ever before.

“Magnus’ beard, Vazil, let me go!” came the protest, but Vazil couldn’t feel the slightest pity for the man, and then it was followed up with, “Or I’ll have to call the guards -”

“Oh, please do,” hissed Vazil and pressed him even harder against the wall - she’d caught his arm in a deadlock, and if she pressed any harder, she’d break it off. Not that she felt any particular dislike for the idea, “I am sure the guards will be just as happy as I to know you’re doing the work of Molag Bal, sending students up there to get initiated into that little sect of yours,” Alberic whimpered, and he would’ve lost his arm, if it wasn’t for Angalmo, who appeared from a nearby room and let out a short shriek. It was all Vazil needed to snap out of it and release her former teacher.

“What are you talking about?” asked the Breton as he turned around, rubbing his arm - then his eyes got wide, “You’re soaked!”

“It’s nothing compared to what you’ll be once I slit your throat,” Vazil wasn’t entirely sure why she felt the need to threaten him, nor why she’d been stupid enough to do it in front of a witness.

“Please, let’s talk in private -” tried Alberic with a meaningful look towards the Altmer, who was gawking at them, clearly at a loss for words.

“I don’t want to be anywhere in private with  _ you _ ,” spat Vazil, wishing some of the fire in her guts could come out along with her voice and thoroughly destroy the little man.

“I’m getting Teekeeus,” squeaked Angalmo before disappearing.

“You can’t report someone for mentioning a name,” Alberic told her in a hushed voice the moment the Altmer had gone. Vazil crossed her arms over her chest, mostly so that she wouldn’t punch him, or do something else equally as incriminating.

“But you knew he was a follower of Molag Bal,” she remembered the information, Alberic  _ had _ told her.

“What do you mean  _ was _ ?”

“He’s dead,” now, that was something the other had not expected, and the flicker of fear in his eyes was most satisfying, “ _ I  _ didn’t kill him,” she continued, though she found herself grinning a bit at that, “he died like a fool, slain by his own summon. He who rules with fear runs out of luck once the underling no longer fears him. And if there’s something that is entirely inevitable, it must be that we all get over our fears at one point or anoth-”

“There was a problem?” Teekeeus seemed a bit older than usual as he came over the threshold, still wearing his reading glasses firmly on his snout. Clearly, he had been disturbed.

“Oh, there’s no problem,” assured him Vazil instantly, “except, perhaps, for the fact that Alberic here sent me to the shrine of Molag Bal.” The Argonian’s eyes narrowed and he was forced to take off his glasses to see better.

“My goodness,” he commented, which very likely was a reaction to Vazil’s drenched state, “Alberic - is this true?” he then asked and tried to divert his eyes - it was difficult, for he was very clearly disturbed by the soaked Battlemage.

“Yes but - Teekeeus! It’s just Olyn - you  _ know _ I refer promising students to him,” he Argonian shrugged at the defense.

“I don’t know if I know that. It depends on what he did and does,” out of habit, the small lizard started polishing his round spectacles on his robes, “what did he do?”

“He’s dead!” burst Alberic and pointed at Vazil, who hissed in retaliation, “She killed him!” Teekeeus paused, eyeing back and forth between his two disorderly guild members, then sighed and aged at least a hundred years in just one breath.

“I sense that this shall be a most lengthy conversation. Why don’t we retreat to the conference room? Feel free to get a change to something less…  _ slick _ ,” he finally addressed Vazil, “it’s enough to have Bal spoken about, we don’t need to invite Peryite as well.”

  
  


“I did not kill him,” Vazil said as she sat in the chair offered by Teekeeus.

“It doesn’t matter,” the Argonian waved his talons nonchalantly, “Daedra worshippers aren’t protected by the law. If anything, you’d get more of a boon if you  _ did _ kill Seran than if you didn’t - no, no: it is  _ him _ I’m concerned about,” he walked to the other side of the small, round table, setting his hands on the backrest of the chair, in which Alberic sat, pale as a storm in Bruma, “You have made grave accusations against him which, if they are true, might very well cast him out of the Guild.”

“They are not true,” maintained Alberic, “it’s not illegal to mention who is and isn’t master of a field. And I’m not a follower of Molag Bal - perish the thought!”

“And have you trained with Seran?” asked Vazil at last. Her question was followed by silence, punctuated only by Teekeeus’ discomforted grunts and the distant sound of Angelmo performing alchemy to forget what he’d just seen. She wasn’t sure what would be the worst - that Alberic hadn’t trained with the man and thus didn’t care to know what he sent his students to face, or that he  _ would _ have trained with the man, and knew  _ exactly _ what kind of situation he sent people to.

 

“Okay,” resolved the Guild head at last and let go of the chair, mostly so that he could pinch the bridge of his nozzle between his fingertips, gathering his thoughts with closed eyes, “ _ I  _ did not know Olyn Seran was a follower of Molag Bal, or I would have never approved of his mentioning within these walls. Did you know he was a follower, Alberic?” he asked to the Breton, who shook his head fervently, “Very good. I like that. Then it’s settled. Don’t do it again,” he pressed a hand on Alberic’s shoulder and looked meaningfully at Vazil, as if he was telling her off, rather than his associate.

“That’s it?” this turn of event was so sudden and unexpected, that she could hardly feel anything about it, other than stumped, “You’re just going to let him... “ she waved her hand at Alberic, who gave an apologetic smile.

“It won’t happen again,” he promised as an answer to Teekeeus.

“Of course it won’t. Because Seran is dead,” snapped Vazil and stared harder at the Argonian.

“What do you want me to do? Keeping a network is hardly anything illegal, and last time I tried to communicate with the Archmage, it took him six months to get here,” he made a sweeping gesture with his hands and then brought his fingers to his face again.

“Then talk to the city guard. Have him expelled from Chorrol,” Vazil felt dizzy and cold at the same time, it was unreal that she had to be the voice of reason, after all she’d gone through. There were barely any energy left for this.

“You’re the one who should be expulsed!” burst Alberic, at last regaining some color, and fire too, “You assaulted me!  _ Me _ , a fellow member of the Mages Guild!” Behind him, Teekeeus expression changed to a snarl. It was evident that this was just a negotiation task that he wished wasn’t part of his job.

“And we’re going to forget about all if this, because it was a misunderstanding,” he hammered the words in and straightened up, “Now. If either of you pursue this conflict any further I’ll be forced to relocate the both of you. I hear Bruma is in need for an expert level mage…”

“There won’t be a need,” Vazil got up from her chair and smoothened out the borrowed robe, “I’ll be leaving as soon as my clothes are dry, and  _ I _ will talk to Archmage Traven, rest assured of that.” Alberic turned even darker, but Teekeeus held him in place with his hand.

“You do that,” said the Argonian calmly, “it spares me the time of having to write a report - it’s routine,” he commented to Alberic, who had opened his mouth, “but if I don’t have to do it, I’ll be ever so pleased.”

  
  


Sleep came like a spell that afternoon, and held her in its grasp so firmly that not even willpower could wake her up. Something moved there, under the sheets of blackness, those that covered her eyes in the dreamless episode. A presence which probed her, and finally deigned make an appearance, albeit only in voice.

“So, this is the Mortal that has done me such a service,” the letters slithered through her mind like worms, and a twin pair of venom green eyes lit up ahead of her, slanted and slitted like that of a snake, “You have released my follower, and it would disturb me if I were to leave this gesture without counterbalance. Receive the boon of Peryite, child,” it hissed like a murmur, and as the dream faded away and reality bled back into her body, it did so with such a heat and cold that even a grown man wouldn’t withstand it.

 

“That’s what you get for walking in the rain like that,” was one of the first things she heard as she opened her eyes. Angalmo was sitting at her bedside, a bottle in his hand. He was blurry - in fact, the entire room was blurry, and it turned on itself like a vortex, summoning forth one of the worst nauseas Vazil had ever experienced, “Drink,” offered Angalmo, but his face shifted in and out of reality, and amongst its many shapes, were that of Alberic, and of Seran, and for fear that the bottle contained poison, Vazil refused the cure.

 

For three days, Peryite stayed by her side like a constant reminder of his gratitude. Whether or not Vazil entirely appreciated his gift was aside the point - he simply wanted to be without debt, because nothing bugged him as much as an unbalanced record, and he’d rather just get on with his obsessive-compulsive rhythm.

 

On the fourth day, Nirn laid calm like a mirror under blue skies, and Vazil woke to a clear mind and an empty stomach. Angalmo saw to her needs and fed her by the bed, even though she insisted that she’d rather eat with the others.

“I’m afraid that desire is quite one-sided,” Angalmo had told her then, looking at the soup bowl he was holding rather than her. She’d sat and taken it, frustrated to notice that her hands were shaking.

“I am to be swept under the rug, then?” she summarized, and the words stung her as well as him.

“You caused quite some discourse, Teekeeus doesn’t want a repeat incident,” the explanation didn’t make anything better, and Vazil set the bowl aside, leaning against the headrest and glaring to the side, out into sunny Chorrol.

“And what do  _ you _ think?” she asked at last - Angalmo, the gentlest of them all, was someone she had always considered a friend.

“You threatened to slit his throat,” commented the Altmer, as if that was enough of a basis to pass judgement on.

“He sent me straight into the talons of the Prince of Rape, Angalmo,” countered Vazil, even if it was going to be a lost battle, she’d be damned if she wouldn’t fight it, “I think I’m entitled to respond in kind.”

“And this is why Teekeeus doesn’t want you in the lounge,” his voice was so incredibly soft when he said those things, as if they weren’t at all entirely offensive.

“Oh. I’m sorry that I didn’t come back from Molag Bal a better person,” she snarked at him and took the bowl of soup, ready to throw it at him. Not that any of this was his fault - he didn’t know, did he? Not the full extent.

“You didn’t become a follower, did you?” wondered Angalmo at last. That her words could be interpreted that way, was something she hadn’t considered, and for a moment she didn’t even understand his question. Then she felt her anger refuelled and reach the bowl to him.

“If that’s what you think, then you’re not half as observant as I thought,” not caring whether or not he took the dish, she let it go and detangled herself from the bedsheets, not caring one lick about nudity as she got over to the cabinet to get her clothes.

“You really are going to report him to Tavern, then?” She could feel his sorry look in her back, and made a grimace to herself.

“Yes. I am.”

“And admit, in the same sentence, that you actually went to visit this follower of Molag Bal to learn from him?” continued Angalmo with more concern this time. She paused mid movement - was he right? Could she get into trouble over that? Then, she shook her head and pulled the robes on, continuing onto the shoulder pads and the rest of her garments. Angalmo’s question went unanswered, because she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer, nor was she sure that it mattered.


	4. Chapter 4

As so often before, Vazil’s postponed emotions didn't strike her until much later, half-a-day into her trek to the Imperial city. The sky had started to bloom in diamonds and moons when at last she collapsed on herself, betrayed by a lack of control that she only truly left for when no one was alone. In the wilderness, amongst trees and flowers, she let herself weep, and it was an ugly flow of tears, distorting her face in pain and frustration. How she hated this vulnerability, this soul-wound’s blood gushing down her cheeks - tomorrow promised to be a day of headache and dehydration, the way she was losing liquid like this.

 

Resolved to stop this indulgence at last, she pressed on, cursing Molag Bal and the shadows too, while she was at it. Hating Alberic and Seran and the Daedric Prince himself put a dampener on the pain she otherwise suffered, and eventually she started to enjoy the kind of high that usually came with rageous feelings. Crying turned into grinning, and when she let herself rest again, she was more enthused than she was crushed - she was going to get her revenge, because no matter what Traven would decide to do about her connection to Seran, he would do it even worse unto Alberic, and Teekeeus too, for his eagerness to discard his responsibilities.

 

As night crept on and she tossed and turned on her pelts, Vazil was faced with the reality that sleep was not as easily accessed now that Peryite had left her. Instead of the dreamless slumber fever had granted her, she found that each time she closed her eyes, she saw and felt fragments and flickers of what had happened at the shrine, experiences so vivid they might as well have been real. It was as though her mind desperately wanted to digest those memories into something much easier to handle, but in doing so, had gotten stuck in a loop that seemed without end.

 

Morning paid no heed to this excuse, and spread it’s white bolster wings over the sky, unwanted but impossible to deny. Vazil dragged herself forth as if she was both the handler and the leashed - her head felt heavy, her eyes sore, and her chest felt like someone had driven a jagged club through it, breathing was raw and cold.

  
  


The first thought that crossed her mind as she entered the waiting hall to the Arcane University, was that Raminus Polus’ robes had seen better days. The man himself, arguably, must’ve seen better days, for his face was distorted in disgust, as a cowering Argonian woman stumbled around him, trying to scrape something snot-looking from his chest and belly.

“Ah!” he had noticed her at last, and fired a smile at her while in his mind, no doubt, going through the many faces he’d seen through the years. Vazil allowed him this exercise in memories, patiently watching the poor woman flit around.

“I need to make an appointment with the Archmage,” she finally told, and Raminus’ face shifted to the exact kind of expression she had hoped not to see, “I know, he’s a very busy man, but I have to see him. I have reasons to suspect the presence of a Daedra worshipper in the guildhall of Chorrol.” Raminus’ lips shaped into an ‘o’ and he gesticulated to the Argonian to leave, which she didn’t hesitate to do.

“I’ve been told you’d come,” he said at last, took a seat on the bench ahead, and patted the space next to him, “I’m afraid the Archmage is unavailable at the moment, but I assure you, I’ll relay everything you say to him. We take this seriously.” Vazil remained standing, a knot in her stomach gnawed at her. This wasn’t right.

“Who told you I’d come?” she asked with a squint. Raminus patted the bench insistently. Vazil continued to refuse. The other sighed shallowly.

“I read Teekeeus report on the incident. It said to expect you, as you had said you’d come here to share further details on the case. Details I’d be happy to hear - but you must be exhausted,” he added in a way that interrupted even himself, “you look terrible, and I fear that if you do not sit down, you might just fall over from fatigue. Come now,” he patted the bench again, and Vazil decided to indulge him, mostly so that he’d stop being so annoying about it.

“You say you have read Teekeeus’ report. I have not,” this gained her a nod.

“The report also stated that you were claimed by disease shortly after the incident, and that you refused treatment. I can’t and won’t blame you for not having read the paper. And I don’t think it matters if you did, I want to hear your point of view. You accused Alberic Litte of Daedra worship - what led you to make such an accusation?” almost seamlessly, the mage had drawn out a notebook, which he placed on his knee, prepared to write down the testimony.

“He sent me to learn Conjuration from Olyn Seran. At the Shrine of Molag Bal,” it felt frustrating to go it all over again, so she hurried up before Raminus could interrupt with more questions, “I went there, and they forced me to make an offering to the Daedric Prince, else they wouldn’t teach me. So I made an offer, did some errand -”

“So you went along with it?” sniped Raminus, which made Vazil shut her mouth in a snap, closing her eyes to better contain the frustration that was now boiling up again.

“I had to. So yes, I went along with it, I guess you could say that - look, I didn’t kill anyone. All I got tasked with was bullying some woman until… until she snapped and killed me,” she cleared her throat, Raminus said nothing, and she took it as an invitation to continue, “I was returned to the altar, and then, Seran… is this really necessary?”

“Yes,” the scratching of the quill against parchment halted, and Raminus held up his hand lifting his eyebrows a bit, “though before we go there, I want to ask you - when Alberic told you of Seran, did he tell you specifically where to find him?”

“Yes.”

“At the shrine of Molag Bal?” Vazil bristled a bit and let out a grunt, this was getting stupid.

“Yes!”

“It says in the report that he didn’t. Look,” Raminus lowered the notebook and pursed his lips, “how should I say this so that you won’t take offense… I understand that, whatever happened to you at that shrine must have been traumatic. But if the rest of what you have to tell won’t provide any proof of a link between Alberic and Molag Bal, I really must urge you that for your own sake, it’s be better if you didn’t tell. Okay?” he nodded at her like she was stupid.

“Teekeeus lied in the report, if he wrote that,” she maintained, which caused Raminus to take a deep breath, put his book aside, and fish up another, which he flicked through until he found the two pages written by the Argonian.

“Here, paragraph six, line four, it says that, and I quote  _ ‘Athragar witnessed the conversation between Vazil and Alberic Litte, in which Litte told Vazil where to find a Master of Conjuration. At no point in the conversation did Alberic mention anything about Molag Bal or his followers.’  _ And to further debunk your ideas about Teekeeus lying; everyone at the guild hall read and signed this report. So, withot further ado, what do you have to say about that?” Raminus tilted his head forward to look at her from under his brows, which made him look particularly stupid.

“That Athragar is a lying!” burst Vazil.

“Oh come on, they can’t all be lying - and certainly not about that kind of thing. Do you want to know what I think happened?” he hastened to add, Vazil shook her head, but he didn’t seem to take that as a negative, “I don’t think you’re lying - wait,” he held up a hand to stop her from talking, then lowered his voice, “when under severe stress and anxiety, our minds sometimes play tricks on us, creating false memories. They are just as real to us as if they had really happened. I can imagine that this is why you think he told you of the shrine - but in reality, Vazil, do you think anyone from this Guild would openly tell of Daedric worshippers and where to find them? I do not think so. So,” he snapped the book shut and smiled, picked the other book and ripped out the page he had just written, crumbling it in his hands, not caring that he got ink on his skin, “I’m prepared to look the other way for you - technically I should report you to the legion, for the deal you struck with Molag Bal, but since the circumstances are so special, and since I do not believe  _ at all _ that you are a follower of the Daedra, I think an exception is in order. The rest of your Guild hall, too,” he added, “is willing let this matter slide. Teekeeus in particular put a lot of weight in his description of your good character, and I trust him. Shall we let this be?” Vazil, whose breath had gotten stiffer and stiffer the further Raminus went on, clenched her fists and locked her eyes with his.

“I am  _ not _ mad. I  _ know  _ what he said,” she knew already that her words would fall on deaf ears, as the other gave her a sorry look.

“I’ll let you mull over it. In the meanwhile, I regret to inform you that Teekeeus also wrote that he wanted me to find you another assignment, which means you can’t go back to Chorrol - it’s not that anyone blames you,” he held up his hands to dissuade her counterattack, “but rather, to avoid another argument between yourself and Alberic. I think you understand what I mean. And luckily for you,” he continued rapidly, “I have the perfect position for you. Kvatch could use another pair of hands.”

“Honestly, at this point I’m debating whether I should stay in the Guild at all,” Raminus’ comforting hand on her thigh was unwelcome, but she didn’t feel like smacking it off.

“Please, think about it. In the meanwhile, feel free to stay at the quarters here. I can think of a handful of newcomers who would love learning a thing or two from a Conjuration expert like yourself.” 


	5. Chapter 5

That Raminus Polus thought that she’d want to stay in a place where she was so obviously distrusted and discredited, was yet another stab. She’d declined his offer promptly, but as she was weary from travels already, she didn’t feel like departing from the city just yet, and instead sought out the Elven Gardens District, where she checked into The King and Queen Tavern. If she was lucky, she reasoned, she might even run across job offers there.

 

How one could feel so utterly lonely in a tavern full of happy, drunk people, Vazil wasn’t sure. She felt out of place, like a sore thumb, and no matter what she said or where she turned, she simply felt uncomfortable with herself. Everyone else had come there in groups of friends, clumping together with chatter and building walls paved with inside jokes. As the hour became late and the sound level sunk to something more pleasant, Vazil headed upstairs to her room, locking herself in there, unable to move much further.

 

She felt a mess, sliding down onto the floor, back against the door, scraping against uneven wood. To think that everyone in Chorrol - even Angalmo, her closest confidante - had signed that statement. That  _ lie _ . Why were they doing this? The ones she had thought of as family, as friends… Maybe, she shuffled her feet and hugged her knees to her chin, maybe they were right. Maybe, somehow, she’d created a false memory, just like Raminus had suggested. Perhaps Sheogorath was to blame. Perhaps she was going just a little crazy.

 

“I am  _ not _ crazy,” she told herself firmly and clenched her jaws hard, “how would I have found him if no one told me where he was? At the shrine of Molag Bal. That’s what he said. That’s what that two-faced little…” then she blew some air through her lips and closed her eyes, smacking the back of her head against the wall. Now she was  _ really _ losing it - only crazy people sat on floors, talking to themselves like this.

 

What if she was wrong? What if she had attacked Alberic, threatened his life and accused him, all without reason? The way everyone acted, it seemed the only reasonable conclusion - yet, yet she  _ knew better _ . She knew what she’d heard! She remembered  _ vividly _ what she’d heard!

 

Was it too late to go back to Chorrol and beg forgiveness?

 

“I am  _ not _ doing that,” she told herself firmly, and for some reason, hearing her own voice made her feel more… real. More like an actual person, whose voice was just as valid - no,  _ more _ valid - than anyone elses. She was alone, but she was  _ right _ . Why the others were lying, she couldn’t comprehend, but it was aside the point - they could go wander off a cliff for all she cared.

 

But she cared. And just minutes after her decision that she didn’t really care at all, she caught herself thinking of topics to discuss with Angalmo, once she was back in Chorrol. Whether that was more angering or sad, Vazil didn’t know, but what was certain, was that it didn’t exactly help her.

 

Not realizing she’d fallen asleep until the clutches of dreamless darkness let her go, Vazil took a couple of sleep-drunk moments to realize someone was knocking on her door. The door she was leaning against.

“Room service,” offered a rocky voice on the other side.

“I haven’t paid for -”  it really hurt to get up, sleeping on the floor had been exactly as bad an idea as it could be expected to.

“Your breakfast,” the Khajiit on the other side stretched out her little paws to display the meal she was offering, smiling rather sweetly, her eyes thin slits.

“Must be for someone else. I didn’t pay the fee for that,” and  _ that _ really was quite a luxurious setup; honey-glaced milk porridge, a shapely bun of bread, a red apple, all balanced atop a beautifully decorated silver tray, definitively nothing Vazil would expect to receive for free.

“Oh, M’Jirra is sorry - this one meant to say, since it’s M’Jirra’s first day, she was tasked with serving everyone their breakfast at their rooms, as practice. We Khajiit like to make good first impressions, so this one has paid for everyone’s breakfast today,” she lifted the tray a little extra, flopping her left ear backwards, possibly as a display of shyness - Vazil had never been good at reading Khajiit body language.

“Very well, thank you,” she mumbled and accepted the gift, retreating to the little table next to the bed, followed by the distant sound of  _ Enjoy! _ and the door closing and locking behind her.

 

“I suppose I  _ should  _ eat,” reasoned Vazil with herself as she sat on the bed and shuffled the table closer. Golden light seeped in through the windowglass, and the light glistened in the honeyed porridge, creating an almost erotic image of temptation. Nodding to herself, she took the spoon and filled it with the white, warm mixture, lifted it and -

 

And sat it back in the bowl again, swallowing hard to tame the sudden wave of nausea that rushed over her. Warm, white, slightly transparent and salty? With a grimace, she sat her elbows on the table and leaned her forehead on her hands, staring down at the breakfast. Any and all desire she’d had to eat was gone with the wind, Seran, as if he had never died, invaded her senses again. With a growl to herself, she gave up and jolted from the bed. Hopefully, she’d be able to exchange her free breakfast for something less gross.

 

Despite the early hour, activity downstairs held a healthy pace. It seemed she wasn’t the only one to favour over-the-desk breakfast to the free offer, and as she crossed the room to speak to the Imperial bar keep, she felt a tug on her clothes, pausing her.

“Sir, excuse me, please, are you going to eat that?” peeped the small voice of a child - a scrawny little Argonian girl looked up at her and she shook her head in honesty, which of course prompted continued requests; “Could you spare me a bite? Please?” All dressed in rags, she couldn’t be anything but a street orphan, eyeing the fruit on the tray as if it were made of gold. It was quite a mystery how she’d managed to get in at all. Most establishments wouldn’t allow them for even half a second.

“Here,” she reached the apple to the kid, who grabbed it with wide eyes.

“Miss! I’m sorry I called you a sir! It’s just that - Thank you!” Vazil, who didn’t much care about titles anyway, nodded and smiled.

“No harm done, what’s important is that you wanted to be polite,” then, she went over to the queue, which had gotten long already. By the time she reached the counter, the child had gotten escorted out of the tavern, although thankfully, she’d been allowed to keep the apple, despite the initial accusations from the guards that she might have stolen it.

  
  


“Free breakfast? Khajiit employee?” on the other side of the desk, the little brown-haired man scratched his head, looking at her plate like it were some sort of daedric artefact sprung out of thin air, “Wherever this came from, it wasn’t us.”

 

Vazil stared at the tray as well, she felt herself get all cold, understanding while all at the same time refusing to acknowledge. And then, with her heartbeat picking up speed, she realized - the kid. She’d given the apple to the kid.

“Destroy it,” she ordered at last, “make sure no one eats anything from that - I have to go.” Whatever his reaction was, she didn’t manage to snap it up before she was out the door, looking wildly left and right. The orphan was nowhere to seen, so she just grabbed hold of the first person to cross her path, an Orsimer lady who had been busy telling her friend something about crumpets.

“Have you seen an Argonian child, about this tall?” she held her hand in the air for reference, and the two women looked at each other, “She’s uh, she’s stolen my apple.”

“Maybe,” answered the other Orsimer, “I think perhaps I saw one headed that-a-way,” she pointed over her shoulder, “but I’m not sure I saw any appl-”

“Thank you!” interrupted Vazil as she detached herself and ran in that direction, crossing the corner just to see a tail disappearing around the next.

 

It was incredible how fast a starved orphan could be if given a reason to run - whenever Vazil turned around a corner, the Argonian was already crossing the next. It was odd, too, that she’d be running - she hadn’t committed any crime, and could hardly know she’d be chased. And what a chase it was, carrying on for at least ten minutes, crisscrossing until they ended up in the Arboretum. When she finally caught sight of the Argonian, the child was sat in the shadow of the statue of Arkay, already munching the applee, flashing a troublefree smile as she caught sight of Vazil.

“Kind lady!” she recognized her.

“That…” Vazil took a moment to calm her breath, stumbling closer to the girl, “that apple is poisoned,” the child stopped munching, eyes widening in contemplation as she looked closer at her food, then she shrugged and, much to Vazil’s horror, took another bite.

“We Argonians are immune to poisons,” reminded her the orphan and wiggled her toes, “But it’s lucky you gave it to me, then, rather than eat it yourself. Dunmer are not immune.” Leaning forward to rest her hands against her knees, Vazil did her best to catch her breath, and to not frown too hard.

“I’m only half Dunmer,” she said, because after all this time of getting sorted as one, it still bugged her when it happened.

“If you say so, Miss,” the answer was spoken flippantly, somehow phrased almost like an insult.

“And don’t call me  _ miss _ ,” Vazil had never done particularly well with residue concern, usually all it did was to reform into aggression. This occasion wasn’t an exception - after all, Vazil was a battlemage, getting referred to as if she was some feeble little virgin lady was quite an insult already. The Argonian child tilted her head to the side, some scales on her cheeks changing color to a vague green.

“Last time, you said politeness was good, this time it isn’t - why?” the genuine curiosity of a child laid behind those words, but Vazil didn’t feel much like acting the educative adult in that moment, and straightened up with a groan.

“Communicative subtlities,” she summed up with the suspicion that a street urchin wuldn’t even understand the word. Somehow, causing confusion and distress calmed her inner fire, and she took more of a moment to look the kid over: She looked fine. If the apple was poisoned, then this Argonian truly was immune - lucky coincidence, indeed, “I’ll be on my way, then,” Vazil decided, and set her course towards nothing in particular.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what? We finally get to see a Dremora!

There was a reason Vazil had avoided the Market District so far, despite her deep affections for it: Her parents lived there.

 

She wasn’t avoiding them in the negative sense of the word, in fact, normally she would’ve made a point to visit them as the opportunity came up, but… But she knew what she looked like, what she felt like. What her situation had become - how was she supposed to explain that she’d been expulsed from the Chorrol guildhall? And how was she supposed to hide what had happened to her at the shrine of Molag Bal? She wasn’t good at lying, especially not in the face of her mother. Those were burdens she couldn’t share with them - they were proud of her, of how far she’d come in her studies in Conjuration. Who was she to take that away from them?

 

No, she decided as she stood at the doorsteps to her own childhood’s home, she had to remain distant to them, at least until she was something to be proud of again. With that thought out of the way, the question remained what to do next.

 

Walking down the narrow road back towards the Elven Gardens District felt so different from how it had been all those years ago, when she still called the Imperial City her home. People hadn’t changed, the city hadn’t changed, and yet it didn’t feel like the same place at all, as if none of it was truly real, or as if she was walking through a memory in which her present self had no place. When she couldn’t understand why this bothered her so much, she decided to blame her exclusion from Chorrol - she no longer  _ belonged _ , neither here, nor there, and as if that wasn’t enough, there were forces in the world that thought she didn’t belong in the light of life, either.

 

It felt like a repeat of the fiasco a near week ago - there she was, with heavy accusations once more, and no proof to speak of. She had incriminated herself by committing an act under the orders of a Daedric Prince, and there was no one to catch her fall, no one to protect her. She couldn’t go to the guards, and the worst was that she didn’t exactly fear getting arrested - she feared that her parents would find out. Not even if it were to protect her own life, could she bother the dutimen of Law.

 

That left her with only one last option, one last confidante in which she could place her trust: Herself.

 

She would have to solve this - somehow, in some way, she’d have to fend for herself.

 

“Do you allow summons in this place?” she asked the innkeep as she returned to the tavern. The man blinked at her, a bit caught off track, and put down the cup he’d been drying, tapping the counter with a finger as he leaned forward, lowering his voice to a mere murmur:

“You mean, a Conjuration kind of summon?” he asked, squinting at her with the kind of suspicion she’d come to know through her Conjuration studies, so she gave a confirmative nod, “It’ll cost you a few extra septims, say… five a night.”

“Two.”

“Four.”

“Done,” fingering her pouch, she withdrew some coins and put on the desk, sliding them across the coarse surface, “and I’d like a glass of water with that.”

“So…” the man’s voice wemt casual again, and he turned his back to tap some water for her, humming to himself, “Someone tried to poison you?” He returned and placed a crystal glass between them - he looked very much like what you’d expect from a man who wanted no murders in his inn.

“If you’re worried about your reputation, don’t be. I don’t intend on reporting it,” she could see his shoulders drop significantly, and he heaved a satisfied breath.

“It wasn’t our food,” he made sure to press anyway. Vazil smiled wryly and sipped her water, which tasted sweet and cold, exactly what she needed to chase away the headache she could sense was coming on.

“I know,” she pinched the bridge of her nose to massage the migraine into submission.

“Do you know who…?” prying, was he?

“I’m a battlemage,” she gesticulated to herself briefly, then continued her nose rubbing, “couple of days ago, my hand slipped and I killed a Daedra Worshipper. I guess his friends weren’t so thrilled to find out - I think he was some sort of priest, or something,” she took a swig of her drink, looking at the barkeep for just enough of a moment to see how pale he’d gotten, and how his eyes shone with a mixture of horror and, admittedly, excitement.

“I can see why you’d be in need of a body guard,” he told in a hushed voice, grabbing a stool to sit on to make their conversation better, “Name’s Ley. Ley Marillin, by the way,” he stretched his hand over the counter, and she shook it.

“Vazil,” when there wasn’t a last name, she shook her head a little, “dad’s an Altmer and doesn’t have a family name, and my mother’s ancestry hails to the Ashlanders, so she decided it easier to just drop hers in way to integrate here,” she emptied her glass, “They live in the Market District.” Ley frowned a bit.

“Why aren’t you staying with them?” he certainly was pushing his luck with that curiosity of his, and it was lucky for him that the battlemage didn’t mind indulging in his shallow care. Shrugging, Vazil twirled the empty glass between her hands, pursing her lips in contemplation. How to say it?

“I didn’t feel like announcing myself. It’s not a planned visit, and considering someone just tried to poison me… it’s just as well that I didn’t go to my parents. I don’t know what I’d do if either of them were hurt - no. I’ll have this situation dealt with, but until then,” she made a  _ pff  _ sound and set the crystal glass back down on the counter.

“A sound decision,” reckoned the barkeep and took the glass, hinting with his head to the tap - she nodded, and he poured her another, “So, what’s this summon of yours gonna be?” he asked as he gave her the drink.

“At first,” she smiled a little at herself, “I thought maybe a Daedroth. I’m good at them. But it wouldn’t fit in the room, and I know they smell a bit, so I was thinking maybe a Clannfear. They’ve got good hearing, and make for good watchdogs, exactly what I need,” she sipped the water and the man nodded with a thoungtful hum.

“Couple o’ weeks ago, I had someone do a summon, they conjured up a Sanguine Dremora,” he told her with a grimace, “and they were at it until  _ five _ in the morning. Now, I’m not one to judge what people are into, but doing it with a  _ Dremora? _ That’s kind of…” he chuckled a bit and diverted his eyes, a red tint settling on his cheeks. Vazil had half a mind to tease him, but thought better of it.

“Don’t worry about that from me,” she said instead, “when last I was near a Dremora,  _ well _ , let’s just say I’d rather have a break from them for the moment being,” he held up a hand to her and sighed.

“You paid, so as long as you keep the volume down - and the furniture in one piece - I don’t need to know the details,” at that, they both snorted a little, until thoughtful silence claimed them.

“You know,” Ley broke the silence in a most gentle voice, “maybe I could talk to the guard. Have them post a couple of extras outside, say one of my patrons received a death threat, but want to remain anonymous…”

“Because you don’t want to have your reputation stained in case I  _ were _ to get murdered, this time?” reckoned Vazil with an amused headshake, “You do what you feel you have to, I won’t stop you. I can understand the need to protect what you care for.” She lifted her drink to him as a signal of mutual understanding, and emptied it - the water truly felt cleansing.

  
  


Evening fell on Tamriel, its plane gazed upon only by starlight seived by the dark veil wrapping all of Oblivion. In her room, Vazil had laid out her summoning circle - she’d need a daedra to last her the entire night, who wouldn’t turn on her despite sleep. As such, the binding to Nirn and herself needed a much stronger seal - the seal of a Conjuration that couldn’t be banished.

 

The ritual was by no means easy, nor without risks. She’d seen it fail more times than she’d seen it successful, but as she wasn’t going to conjure anything more complicated than a Clannfear, there wasn’t much to fear - she could take a Clannfear, were it to turn on her, such had happened in the past: Those were the things any Conjurer needed to be prepared for, and being a battlemage, trained under one of the Chorrol Fighter’s Guilds most capable hands, she was doubly so.

 

Mumbling to herself as she sat it up, she painted in words also what she painted in the real:

“Seventeen candles in a seventeenfold star, dust of gold and blood and bone to bind them all. Scented smokes to lure them in - sulphur, dreamer’s wood, mothwings burnt, gifts to keep them here,” she sat in front of the circle and closed her eyes, filling herself with the mock scent of Dagon’s realm - Dagon’s underlings made for the most obedient and trustworthy summons. Then she laid her hands on her knees and started chanting.

 

Speaking in Daedric was no easy art, as most Daedra had a second (and sometimes, even third) set of vocal cords, yet, she fancied herself to be quite good at it. She had had years of practice, and by now, her murmurs connected her to the network without delay. It was, she thought as she frowned, a little bit too easy - sure, she was good at this, but the connection was near immediate, and a string connected to her the moment she called for it - she didn’t have to pull at it, instead, it rushed into her at such a speed that she braced herself for collision on reflex.

 

The fire lighting her candles flickered and died, snuffed out by the vacuum of the Oblivion wind, and when she at last opened her eyes to look at the creature she had summoned, it wasn’t at all what she’d expected.

 

Outlined by the blue night light stood a tall figure, decidedly more humanoid than a Clannfear. Cold reflections of the sky outside played in the metal talons of his jagged shoulderpads and heavy gauntlets, but lightest of all gleamed his eyes, pale orange, the fire of the Deadlands burning behind them. His presence felt to her mind like dark vapour, thick but impossible to grab hold of, almost as if he wasn’t bound at all. And yet, although for all intents and purposes completely feral, the towering Dremora remained still, waiting.

 

For her orders, she figured.

 

“You -” she realized she had spoken at the same time as him, and silenced to listen, only for him to do the same. They remained like that for a while, then tried to speak at the same time again, after which he cleared his throat, a sound which was quite raspy and tasteless to an untrained ear, but completely mundane to a Conjuration student.

“I take it, Mortal,” his voice rocked forth as if he had moved, and it was a strange feeling to get approached by a voice like so, “by your look of surprise, that you expected somebody else.” In the shade of the room, Vazil discerned an expression of bemusement - or if it was fascination, it was difficult to tell - on the other’s face. He seemed familiar somehow, which was odd, since she rarely ever summoned Dremora.

“I was trying for a Clannfear,” she told him, at which his lips thinned.

“I see,” his eyes narrowed and even his voice seemed to stiffen, “what an insult,” he added as a mutter. Vazil, who wasn’t keen on the idea of having summoned a half-way unbound,  _ insulted _ Dremora, shuffled backwards and hastily got to her feet.

“I - I don’t know what happened - I didn’t mean to -” she had to interrupt herself, because the Dremora had finally taken a step towards her - granted, he’d put his massive boot in the bowl of incenses, and was now looking down with an expression of dismay, lifting his foot with a disgusted groan, “Have I seen you before?” she asked instead, which caused him to look up, blinking several times. Then, he looked her over, tilting his head sidewise, peering at her with a frown of concentration. Vazil did the same.

 

His looks were quite typical for a Dremora. Almost like a dark crown, he carried two sets of ebony horns, one pair crooked backwards, another pair sticking out just above the ear. His black hair was more humble than his horns - short on the sides, the rest of it slicked backwards in a topknot, tied for order, she supposed. The only thing not so dark about him, were his red markings, which were sparse and thin like a cryptic maze, yet sharp like poison once it entered ones veins.

“You lived,” he finally concluded, although Vazil hadn’t the slightest idea where his mind had been for that entire moment, then he pointed a claw towards her, “when Peryite took me back, I thought your mind must have been fragmented. I remember I felt regret that I would owe gratitude to someone who no longer existed, nor in flesh, neither in soul, yet here you are,” he paused to wet his lips, a dark, cloven tongue tip rushing out only momentarily, “You don’t recognize me,” he realized as he straightened his head again, “My attire changed,” he ran his hands down over his torso to put emphasis on his words, “When you assisted me in getting rid of Seran, you disrupted Molag Bal’s last hold on me, and as a direct result, I rose in rank. I went into the burning waters of Oblivion, and challenged myself,” he grinned, Vazil blinked - this was the weirdly civil Dremora from the Shrine! And his attire really _ had  _ changed, it was more…  _ Dagon _ , somehow.

“You what?” she brought herself to ask, as she had to rewind what he’d just said to understand it at all.

“I went into the -” he stopped himself with a headshake and grunted, “let’s just say I made myself deserving of new armour, and leave it at that for the moment being, what’s more important is, why am I here?” he shook himself and looked her over again.

“I need protection,” Vazil found no reason to deny it, “this morning, I survived an assassination attempt. I would like to keep that record straight.”

“Ooh - then you’ve got the right Daedra, my expertise lays in record keeping,” whether that was a joke or not, was quite hard to tell, “I shall use this opportunity to repay you the debt I spoke of. After I am done serving you here, I will no longer owe you. I like the prospect of that.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I borrowed TranscientNight's headcanon for daedric armour - and I hear he borrowed my headcanon for daedric vocal cords, so we're even ;)

“I cleaned up the mess you made last night,” was one of the first things he said to her as she woke up. Blinking in confusion - she had no memory of relaxing enough to fall asleep - Vazil got up to a sitting position, “I wasn’t sure where you wanted me to put all those trinkets, so I put them in the cupboard - it was empty, so I presumed…” he tapped his fingertips together, the dark metal clinking discretely.

 

The floor was cleaner than it had been  _ before _ she drew her summoning circle, and as if that wasn’t enough, everything else seemed different, too.

“I moved the furniture,” explained her summon as he followed her confused look, “I thought, if I sorted them by size, it’d look more orderly. I also folded your laundry and remoisturized your armour - you should take better care of it,” he chastized her with badly contained judgement and held up a finger, “if your armour had half as much wit as mine, it would’ve cralwed off back into the Waters long ago. But then,” he shrugged, the large shoulderpads lifting under his strength as though they weighed nothing, “I suppose the armour of Mortals isn’t alive. I couldn’t sense any soul in it, at least,” he crossed his arms over his chest. Vazil sat up some more, blinking at the display he’d made of the room - on the table, he’d laid her clothes and equipment meticiously, everything had its place, and still somehow it all fit on that small surface.

“Yeah... “ she mumbled as she found her words, “no, my armour isn’t enchanted, if that’s what you mean by soul,” she had issues keeping up with what he’d said and why, something which he noticed and shook his head at.

“Daedric armor, and most of our clothes, are alive,” he explained and took a seat on one of the chairs, lined up against the opposite wall just next to the cupboard, “as far as I’m aware, they started out as parasitic life forms - and they still have the potential to become such, if you are too weak to wear them. They are like… like leeches,” a cloven tongue tip flipped out to taste the air and he leaned back, watching her with a more smug coldness now, “To us Dremora, they are symbiotes - Mortals can only wear them if they’re hindered from feeding. Of course, that means they won’t heal when damaged, and I can’t begin to imagine what it would feel like to wear armour that doesn’t tell you where it hurts,” he grinned lazily and closed his eyes. Vazil, who hadn’t asked for this information, and who wasn’t sure what to do with it, simply nodded, then hesitated to get out of bed.

“Why did you…” she looked between the table, the cupboard and the far removed chairs and shook her head, “do this?” The creature in front of her cracked open a glowing eye, seemingly thrown off track, then he hummed.

“Oh, that. I got bored,” he shrugged and leaned his head backwards, scratching the tip of his largest horn set against the wall behind him, “and the disorderliness disturbed me - you see, I  _ am _ of Peryite, after all. What bothers my Prince, bothers me. And being bothered hurts. I see nothing constructive in enduring pain when it could easily be cured.” Vazil sat up, crosslegged - the shock from yesterday had gone to rest, and now when she looked at her summon, it struck her how  _ orderliness _ truly was a way to describe him - even his way of wearing his hair resonated with order. That Peryite had Dremora servants, she would’ve never guessed, but -

“But I wasn’t trying to summon someone from Peryite’s plane,” she realized, a thin frown creasing her forehead, “I was trying to pull from the sphere of Dagon.” The other stirred in his seat, leaning forwards a little to look at her more thoroughly.

“Is that a question?” he tilted his head to the side, just like before, and Vazil found enough wits to nod, “Rephrase it,” he requested.

“Why…” she frowned, and wasn’t sure she understood what had happened well enough to know what to ask, “Why did I get you when I pulled from the Deadlands?” hesitantly, she looked at him, half way expecting to find some ridicule there - instead, he laced his fingers together and placed them under his chin, thoughtfully resting his elbows on his knees while looking at her in contemplation.

“Do you really want to know? You are a Mortal, and the affairs of Daedra might either break your mind or bore you to death,” the way he was so serious about it finally broke it for her, and she had to bite her tongue really hard not to laugh, “See, you think it’s funny, and you don’t even know what it is yet,” accused the Dremora, although there was no blame or malice in his voice, “and now you’d still like to know, but are afraid that if you were to talk, you’d start laughing at me. I dare you to ask me, anyway.” Meanwhile, an uncontrolled, silent shaking had taken control of Vazil’s chest, and when she opened her mouth to protest, she found her voice to be deformed by laughter.

“But I already asked!” traitorous lips turned upwards in a grin, and she looked away in a vain attempt to hide both that and the heat that was starting to tint her cheeks.

“I’ll answer,  _ if _ ,” the Dremora held up a finger, she could see him in the corner of her eye, “if you can ask again, but without laughter. I don’t think you can,” he added the last part smugly and set his chin on his entwined hands again, watching her through thin, warm eyes, “You can’t,” he repeated, reinforcing his success, and undermining hers.

“Unfair!” she heard herself protest with an accusative finger pointed at the Daedra. Then, she remembered that she was naked, and fished up her blankets to cover herself. The man in the chair snorted at her.

“Oh,  _ please _ , I’ve seen more naked bodies than will grace your eye for your entire life span. Prudity doesn’t become you,” he straightened up with a sigh and flexed his fingers, the armour too clicking a bit under the strain, “trust me,” he added with a smirk, “I’m a doctor.”

“A  _ witch _ doctor, yeah,” snorted Vazil at last, getting up from her bed with the sheets still folded around her, in comparison to his, curved form, “don’t look,” she demanded at last, and he obeyed - it was unclear whether it was out of courtesy, or if it was because he was bound to her, and he remained silent until she’d started to attach her shoulder pauldrons.

“I’m a regular doctor, too,” he thought to inform her, and was it her imagination, or was there something wounded in his voice now? Looking at him gave no indication, as he was still diverting his eyes towards the door, “What’s on the schedule for today?” he asked instead, which was a question that caused her off guard. Slowing her movements as she attached the clasps of her armour, she felt her left eyebrow give a disturbed twitch.

“I don’t know,” she admitted with hesitant difficulty, he turned to her with a look of disbelief.

“You’re telling me you summoned me here, and you don’t even know what your day is going to be like? What’s the use of that?” he looked to the ceiling with a sigh. Vazil grunted a bit, not as sorry for him as he probably wished her to be.

“After that incident with Seran, I got all but expelled from the Chorrol guildhall. No one wants to admit that they recommended me to seek out a Daedra worshipper - they’re illegal - and they all signed a document invalidating my claims,” getting attacked by the cold fist of reality once more hurt, and she sat at the bed, rubbing her chest absently. She thought of Angalmo, a thought she pressed aside the same second it started hurting her, “Raminus Polus, he’s the secretary of the Archmage, is saving me a spot in Kvatch - it’s all but a bribe to shut me up. I don’t know if I care to go.” There was another sigh across the room.

“And why  _ did _ you go to Seran?” asked the Dremora blankly.

“I don’t feel like having yet another person blame me for -”

“- I’m not blaming you,” interrupted her the summon, “I’m just curious as to what your goal was. What were you hoping to accomplish?” when she looked at him again, he was leaning forward, his eyes set on her, sincerity covering his face like a mask.

“I wanted to master Conjuration. He was the only available teacher,” a light snort left him in response to that, and he straightened up.

“And do you still have this goal?” he asked and stretched his legs a bit, ready to get up. Vazil blinked, frowned, then looked at her hands in her lap - it was a question she hadn’t even asked herself yet, and now that it had been spoken, she wasn’t sure she knew. Did she? Opening and closing her mouth a couple of times, she tasted the options in her mind, then strengthened her resolve.

“Of course I do, I’m not going to let him take that away from me,” she balled her hands into fists. The Dremora clicked his tongue in appreciation of this fire, and took off from the chair, moving his left hand in a sweeping gesture to the door.

“I believe the library of this city of yours might just provide you with the knowledge you seek,” the suggestion was met with a spark of surprise, Vazil got up too, although she wasn’t sure how to react.

“Not a suggestion I’d expect from a Dremora,” she admitted. The daedra lowered his arm and adopted a tired expression.

“I’m of Peryite,” he reminded her, calmly incensed by the fact that everyone around him seemed to simultaneously constantly forget and remind him of the fact.

“I know, it’s just… it would’ve made sense of you would’ve been of Hermaeus Mora,” Vazil wasn’t sure where she was going with this point, and neither was her summon.

“No, that wouldn’t have made sense at all,” he contradicted and crossed his arms over his chest in defiance, “Hermeaus Mora has one of the messiest, grossest realms I’ve ever visited - he hoards knowledge, yes, but organizing it? Categorizing it? Ordering it by alphabetical and numerical and topical and tonal filing systems?  _ That _ is in the heart of Peryite, the grand Taskmaster,” he clutched his own chest with emotion, staring ahead of himself with awe, “there is nothing Mora has, that Peryite has not already committed to his masterful filing system - I’ll forgive you your misconceptions, Mortal, for I know all too well how much time your kin continously wastes by going into Mora’s realm to find the simplest of things. You waste lifetimes there!” then he cleared his throat and shook his shoulders a little, “At any rate, should we go to the library? You have a goal to work towards.”

 

Vazil, who had been awestruck herself - albeit by the sudden monologue on the glory of Peryite - shut her mouth and cleared her throat a little.

“Yes, certainly - after breakfast.”

  
  


“I am  _ not _ of Sanguine!” the Dremora defended himself with badly contained offence. Ley paused his pacing to send the daedra a look. Vazil turned around on the stool to do the same, “ _ Hwat? _ ” the other’s eyes were wide with outrage, then, as nothing was said, pinched with surliness as he looked away. Shaking her head, Vazil turned back to her cheese-and-ham sandwhich, giving Ley an apologetic smile.

“So…” said the Imperial, with much uncertainty as to whom he was supposed to address, “who does he serve, then?” Vazil shrugged - telling that the Dremora was of the Prince of  _ sickness _ when they were staying in a place that had a restaurant, wasn’t exactly a good idea.

“Dagon,” she gesticulated with her hand behind her back, so that only the Dremora could see it, and she hoped he was familiar of the and gesture for shutting the fuck up, “Dremoras of Dagon make capable bodyguards - truth to be told, Ley, I  _ had _ a Clannfear. But then, I woke up halfway through my sleep from a horrible nightmare, and I guess I got a little paranoid,” she couldn’t  _ see _ the way the Dremora looked at her, but she  _ could _ feel it, and for some reason his frustration amused her.

“Aha,” Ley looked up and down between the Battlemage and her bodyguard, who was quite literally covering her back. Then he smiled, edging away in a manner that was discretely at least to his knowledge, “Well, as I said, as long as you pay and won’t damage any of my furniture…” The Dremora snorted.

“It’s the most disorderly furniture I’ve ever seen, for sure,” he complained, “and the entire layout of your rooms must have been designed by one of Sheogorath’s spawn - it’s like stepping into a - a-” Vazil groaned and hid her face in her palm.

“Please, ignore him,” she told to - she wasn’t sure if it was to Ley or her summon, or both. Both wasn’t such bad an option, really.

“If my rooms repel daedra, then all the better,” snarked the innkeeper, who had recovered from his cowardice due to injured pride.

“I shall make sure to ment-” Vazil grabbed the fabric of the Dremora’s coarse tunic and gave it a hard yank, all while smiling sunnily at Ley.

“ _ I _ think the room is lovely,” she reassured him meaningfully, “but more importantly, I’d like to hire it for another couple of nights. We’ll be visiting the Imperial Library, and if I’m right in guessing so, my research might take some time. I hope that some payment in advance will calm your nerves,” she dug her hand in her pouch, excavated some coin, and set it on the counter, “I’d also be interested in any small side-jobs you might catch ear of while I’m off - I’m taking a break from official Guild matters, so I’ll have the time - but please, nothing involving Daedric Princes and their shrines: I’m quite fed up with those for now.” Ley let out a short laugh at that and fished the gold into the safety of his strongbox.

“But aren’t we all?” he winked, at which the dark figure behind Vazil made a grumpy sound. The innkeep didn’t look at him this time, but instead kept focused on his normal guest, “I’ll keep an eye out for you, though I’m pretty sure it won’t be long, unless you’re like everyone else around here, and prefer to stay away from Ayleid ruins.”

“We’ll see,” Vazil pursed her lips and got up, “it’s been some time since I visited one, and that was as part of a team, but… but I’m not gonna say never.”

  
  


Cyrodiil’s skies had calmed themselves over the past days, and the soft cloud blanket remained on top, obscuring the eye of Magnus. A soft summer’s breeze teased the duo as they crossed through the city, and by the time they’d made it to the Talos Plaza, drips of long awaited rain had started to speck the stone. What was a relief to most of the realm’s farmers, was more of a nuisance to the Dremora, who hissed and covered his armour best he could, satisfied only when the doors of the Imperial Library closed shut behind them.

“Such awful weather - it itches, it itches,” whether this tidbit was for Vazil or just a way for him to release stress, she wasn’t sure, but it stirred the oddest sense of pity in her. She’d never had a summon complain about rain before, and the thought that it might hurt them was even more mystifying.

“Must you bring that daedric creature inside?” asked the snotty high elf who sat on an awfully high chair behind the counter. His eyes were small, watery, and dullly gray above halfmoon-shaped spectacles, and his thin, dry lips held a similar expression.

“I can go hunt the Mortals outside, if that’d please you better,” snapped the Dremora, who found that the shitty weather had worn his self-disciplin thin. Vazil grabbed his shirt again, behind her so the elf couldn’t see, and tugged at it, as to remind him of his place - not that it served to better his mood.

“Is he not bound, Sera?” asked the Altmer, and Vazil found her mood tampered with as well.

“I’m only  _ half _ Dunmer, and I’ve lived in Cyrodiil my entire life -  _ Sera _ ,” she returned at him, which caused a blush, more likely from indignation than shame, knowing that most Altmer had none. Behind her, the Dremora had burst into an amused grin.

“What can I get you?” asked the official without betraying his emotions any further.

“We’d prefer to browse on our own,” this time, Vazil pinched the skin of his belly, and while he found surprise at the nag of pain, she found surprise in how soft he was.

“What he means,” she pinched a bit harder and released him, stepping forward, leaving him to begrudgingly rub his stinging tummy,  “is that I’ve got Mages Guild clearance, and I’d like access to the archives. My specialization is Destruction and Conjuration, and it’s the latter in particular that I’m researching,” the Altmer hummed and flicked open the book in front of him  a long, gnarly finger rushing down the rows until he nodded and looked up at her.

“Oh, how sad, it seems you are right. So this is what the Guild has come to?  _ Aah _ ,” he grabbed the long, black quill from the inkwell next to him, and jotted something down, “but at least you know your weaknesses.” Vazil thinned her lips, but didn’t answer - behind her, her summon chuckled a bit, and the fact that she couldn’t tell whether it was  _ at her _ or  _ with her _ , made her wish she hadn’t moved out of pinching distance, “I need your signature here,” the High Elf said at last, and turned the book around, pointing to an empty row. It took some moments of bewilderness before Vazil managed to find the stepping stool, so that she could reach up to the counter and provide her signature.

“Do you need mine as well?” asked the Dremora really rather soberly. The Altmer’s distant eyes made their way to the daedra, and then he grinned. His teeth were sharp compared to his gaze.

“Perhaps I should indulge you, creature. Cognomancy still has its followers alive and in the flesh... but then, it wouldn’t be fair of me to trick you into giving me such a valuable gift, now would it?” at that, the soot-dark Dremora paled a little and looked away, all while the ancient Altmer got his revenge in wolfish glee.

“Cognomancy?” asked Vazil, and the elf retrieved his book, looking it over, looking old and distracted once more.

“Mmm, yes, this seems correct. Too bad, I was hoping for a reason to call the guards, they are quite fetching, aren’t they?” a pink tongue flew out to wet a lower lip that badly needed it, and then he looked at the half-Dunmer again, “As for your question - you’re the Conjurer, you tell me,” he answered more like mockery, then changed expression to something annoyed and bored at once, waving at them offhandedly: “Now, go on inside, before I change my mind and banish the both of you.”


	8. Chapter 8

Most of the books chased off to the Imperial Library were, as could be expected, relics comprised by disproved or outdated theorisms. With the ever changing definition of each school of magic came a neverending nightmare for the poor souls tasked with organizing all the tomes, as what was once considered Illusion or Mysticism, might just as well be considered Alteration in the present, and then arose the question of whether one should order the tomes for what they said they were, or what they would be considered with modern eyes. This - the Dremora told Vazil, as they headed left at a conjunction in the dwindling Ayleid maze - was a topic just as relevant in Peryite’s realm.

“And while your scholars merely debate the filing systems, disagreements back in my sphere have led to far worse...” he shared ominously, eyeing each chamber of books with unabashed disapproval as they passed them by. If there was any continuation to what he’d just said, he chose to keep it for himself as when he continued, it was an analyzis of the present rather than his past; “It would appear that the method used here is a half-way executed compromise, entirely unflattering both to me and the books,” he leaned in and lowered his voice, “I bet they wouldn’t even notice if a tome or two disappeared.” Vazil snorted, having paid him only half a mind, while the rest was preoccupied with keeping an eye out for the signs they were supposed to follow.

“Next you’re going to tell me you’re a follower of Nocturnal, as well,” she implied as she stopped the both of them to step out of the way of a Bosmer who carried a pile of books so high that he disappeared behind it.

“Maybe I was, once,” answered the Dremora with an almost enigmatic inclination. Vazil rose an eyebrow and looked at him over her shoulder, but he was busy staring up at a spiderweb, and so despite her curiosity, she didn’t pursue the invitation of discussion.

 

The most useful tomes, they found back in an obscure section especially dedicated to Daedric worship. It wasn’t exactly what Vazil had been hoping for, but at least the room had a comfortable reading corner, where some soft sofas had been strategically placed in one of the furthest corners. As she started to read the first tome she’d picked - some sort of interview with a daedra - it became glaringly obvious, however, that she’d have difficulties reading at all, what with having a real one watching her.

“Why don’t you go back to the magic school’s section and see if you can find something there?” she asked of him, at which he hummed with a sceptical expression

“I thought you were in need of my protection,” he reminded her and crossed his arms over his chest. Vazil pursed her lips.

“It might be bold of me, and I might regret it in a while, but somehow, I don’t think that the Dark Brotherhood is going to gain access,” she got a lifted eyebrow of disbelief in answer to that, but the Dremora seemed to lack the will to argue, and left to see to his own devices.

 

The first book turned out to be a total disappointment - the only mentions of Conjuration dealt with the act of unbinding a daedra so that any and all sex between you and them was consensual as to avoid making any ties to Bal. Useless as it was to her, Vazil deemed it likely however, that her mother would’ve read this book in her early life, just before she decided to court Sanguine for networking purposes. Some of its finer points brought a certain understanding of her mother that she hadn’t had before - consensual Conjuration was one of them. Of course, that wasn’t something she could very well apply to any other daedra she might need to summon - negociating consent with a Scamp or a Daedroth wasn’t exactly a possibility - but the idea that her mother might view her Sanguine lovers as something more than living sex toys was a new perspective. New, but not useful in the slightest.

 

Vazil slotted the book back in its shelf, and grabbed another, which approached Conjuration from the perspective of the, as it called it,  _ avid student of all things Daedric _ , which was quite a glorified way to describe Daedra worshippers. This tome, however, was much thicker, and carried a lot more substance - Haermaus Mora seemed to have a tentacle in the play, as most examples featured his eldritch underlings and their strange mentalities.

 

It did, however, go into the obscure and undocumented. The basic idea seemed to be that when you summoned your daedra, the greatest strain put on your magical pool wasn’t by the daedra or the struggle for domination itself, but rather by the distance at which you’d teleport the daedra, and the speed at which each plane - mundus included - moved in relation to each other. As the scholar described it, the link between the summoner and the spot the daedra had been summoned from, remained interlinked for the duration of the summon. It was, said the book, like looking through an entire collection of potion recepies, and getting tasked with recalling recepy number fivehundred and fifty four, while at the same time brewing every recepy except for that one, while at the same time gathering the ingredients, with all that entailed.

 

In other words, the subconsciousness of a Conjurer seemed to be always, constantly overworking itself, draining an incredible amount of energy, only so slowly and subtly that most people wouldn’t think of it. And that, said the book, was something that could be optimized. There were several ways to do it, of which one was to -

 

\- the screech was inhumane, and as Vazil’s heart nearly froze in her chest, she knew exactly why: it had come from a daedra. Flinging the book into the couch behind her, she hurried out and through the corridors, tracing the thin line tying her summon to her mind. She crossed through the magical chapter like a charm, and when she found him, it was in the middle of the geography-and-cartology section, where he was standing on a wooden stool, fending off a particularly persistent rat. By the looks of it, the gray creature had already gotten a good bite straight into his left calve, just above the line of his boot. Vazil’s shoulders dropped and she satisfied herself with flinging a poorly charged frost spell at a spot next to the rodent, which was enough to scare it off.

“Are you going to need a potion for that?” she asked as the humiliated Dremora stepped down from his high point, a surprisingly up-to-date copy of  _ An extensive guide to Kvatch _ pathetically pressed to his chest.

“No, no…” he answered absently as he bent over, lifting his robes to get a better look at his leg, which was dripping with black blood, “we Dremora have excellent restorative capabilities. Healing potions aren’t necessary.” He wiped some blood with his thumb and dried it on his robes. Vazil braced herself with an eyeroll.

“I know that. I meant for the diseases that thing likely carry - do you, do you get sick?” she hadn’t actually considered the possibility that he might not be capable of that. The Dremora eyed her with silent surprise.

“I am a Daedra of Peryite and you’re asking me if I get sick,” he commented with something akin to dry humour, then itched his chin and shrugged, “ - yes, Daedra can suffer illness. It’s not the same diseases as you Mortals get,  _ and _ I’m more of a healthy carrier than a target - but yes, we can fall ill. Peryite is powerful like that, he can spread illness to Daedra not his own, and there’s nothing the other Princes can do about it.” he went to rub his thumb over his wound again, sitting down on the stool in the same movement, a thoughtful hum leaving him, before he snorted and continued talking;

“Do you have any idea how many more diseases you Mortals would have to deal with if you didn’t have rats to clean up your garbage? Oh, I know, you associate them with infectious plagues - but,” he frowned, wet his thumb with a forked tongue, and rubbed his skin again, “but I think you should know, rats don’t transmit any diseases on their own - they might have diseases  _ inside of them _ , but it’s not the rat that make you sick. It’s the ticks, fleas and lice, creatures of Namira who willingly come to carry the blessings of Peryite,” he straightened up again and drew a deep breath, “The rats, however, have an undeserved reputation - Peryite favours them for their durability and adaptability, the way they’ve evolved and how they thrive on what few would consider tasteful. They’re kind and considerate of each other, too, empathetic to their kyn,” he smiled a little, and Vazil snorted.

“The one that just bit you didn’t seem very kind, nor considerate,” she pointed out and looked him over, he frowned at that, thoughtful silence consuming him, “Besides, I thought I sent you to look in the magic section.” The Dremora made a distant upward sound to indicate he had heard her, but that he wasn’t necessarily able to answer. Then, he shook himself and got to his feet.

“Indeed, you did, and I found nothing,” he declared and then looked at his chest, where he still held the book. Then, he rigidly held it out, “I thought this might be of greater value, since we - you - are to go to Kvatch. I thought I’d give you a head start by reading up on it. It seems Peryite agrees with you,” he chuckled a bit and when she didn’t take the book, he lowered his arm, “I should have done as instructed. I’ll try not to stray again.”

 

Someone else who didn’t stray again, was Vazil. Back at the couch, she picked up her book to dust it off and haphazardly read the last sentences. Once that was over with, she sat it back in the shelf and went to collect her Dremora, who had now moved on to read one of the more obscure guides to the inner architecture and makings of the Imperial City, having caught on to the concept that maybe Vazil genuinely didn’t want to go th Kvatch.

“This place is a maze,” he told her as they headed out, “the Ayleids really were masters of security, this place really is well fortified.” As they entered the room with the Altmer gatekeeper, however, he fell completely silent and hid his gaze against the ground, almost as if he hoped it’d make him invisible.

“Found what you looked for?” asked the elderly elf as he caught eye of Vazil. She shrugged.

“We’ll see. I’d have to return my current summon to try it out, but I think I’m onto something,” she puffed herself out a little, which caused an amused smile on the old man’s face.

“Well, well, we’ll see how that goes, I guess,” something about the arrogant disbelief in his voice made Vazil even more determined to succeed, and she gave him a dirty look before they left.

“What an arrogant old goat,” she told her Dremora once they were well outdoors, “who does he think he is?” Her summon, who had been absently staring at the paving beneath him, jolted back into life and looked up as though he’d only just realized they were outdoors.

“Uh -” he cleared his throat and looked after a particularly Sheogorath looking woman who passed by them (her hair was pink and purple! Who would want hair like that?), “who do  _ you _ think he is?” he resolved to asking, something mysterious flickering in his eyes as he looked back at her, “With Mer that old, not even I would dare give a guess,” he admitted with a grimace, “they’re unpredictable and nasty, especially the mages.”

“Thanks for that,” snarked Vazil, who had determined that taking everything personally for a little while was going to be an excellent outlet for her suppressed mood. The Dremora didn’t contradict her. Somehow that only served to make her more frustrated.

 

Without planning ahead, her feet lead the both not back to the inn, but to the training grounds encircling the Arena. There, amongst pillars and greenery, amongst the clanging of swords and thuds of hand-to-hand practice, Vazil claimed a spot for herself and  _ her _ sparring company.

“And now, we’ll exercise,” she informed him with crossed arms and a deep frown. In truth, she was informing herself as well, as the aching anger had fused any insight she’d usually have into her own motives. The Dremora made a similar posture.

“And what makes you think I’ll agree to that?” he asked, eyeing her over, “You are a Mortal, and you were born female. You are already at a two-fold disadvantage, and I do not wish to suffer the risk of causing you injury.” She huffed at that and waved her hand at him in dismissal of his concerns, then she drew her weapons.

“Sparring, and no magic,” she dictated and licked her lips taking a balanced posture, flexing her muscles with determination, “fight me or don’t, it’s your choice.” Then, she lounged at him, and he simply swirled out of the way, arms still crossed over his chest.

 

For each attack she dealt, he easily flexed out of the way, as though he was only part Daedra, the rest of him being nothing but air. She went for his weak side - which was the right side, she noticed a slight imbalance in his movements - but he evaded her just as easily. The way he teased her did nothing to scratch the itch she so desperately wanted dealt with, and at last, she let out a loud growl and lost all technical thinking, simply attacking him with fury rather than mind.

 

Their dance continued until Vazil’s head was spinning and her lungs were screaming for air. Defeated, she sat on a nearby crate and leaned her blades against it, her arms weakened from the effort, and her muscles shivering with strain. Sweat trickled over her forehead like a bothersome veil, and somewhere in the corner of her eye, the Dremora sent her a concerned look.

“Your technique was promising, until you lost your temper,” he criticized and went to stand in front of her, his hands in the low of his back this time, possibly so he could look down at her all the better, “You need to work on your breathing, your exhales are out of sync. Your left side is weaker, and your foot on that side keeps stepping down at an awkward angle. And because your right side is your strong side, you do not watch it adequately. And you keep exposing that,” he poked her in the side of the stomach, which caught her off guard - it hurt a lot, “which is one of your vital organs. As well as those,” he circled her and poked two fingers into her lower back before she could protest, the pain itself muffled any word she would’ve said, “which are also important organs,” then he went to stand in front of her again, something more amused masking his face as he appreciated the look of her, pained and annoyed as she were, “I wouldn’t place any praise on you if you were a Dremora, but for a Mortal, you fight quite well.”

“At least I  _ do _ fight,” bit Vazil, who couldn’t remember asking for rude pointers towards everything she did wrong, “unlike you,” she stabbed some fingers at his stomach, then straightened up, catching her breath. The air was pleasantly cold against her sweaty skin, and she snorted, “coward,” she added, at which the Dremora’s smile disappeared.

“I refuse to spar with you until I know where your talents begin and end,” he told her matter-of-factly, “if I do not know my student, I run the risk of causing irreversable damage. I do not expect of your infantile mind to comprehend such a complex string of reasoning - do not fret, Mortal, I forgive you your hasty words…” he looked away as he said it though, his eyes mere slits of discontent. The same wounded look was there as when the topic of him being a doctor had come up, and Vazil found herself tickled by the slightest of curiosity. This Dremora was certainly the strangest she’d ever summoned - yes, of course it was like them to walk around with vulnerable pride, but when wounded, most of them would display aggression rather than further weakness and pain.

“We fought before,” she reminded him at last, strangely enough finding that for some reason, she had softened her voice for him, “you didn’t hurt me then, and if I remember correctly, I did rather well at keeping you at a distance. What reason would I have to think you wouldn’t already know enough of me to train with me?” His response was a snarl, and he tore away from her to lean against one of the pillars, his back turned to her.

 

Figuring that the summon needed time for himself, Vazil stretched against the crate - her body was warm, so it was a good moment - and sheathed her blades. Meanwhile, the sun settled behind a cloud, and a small wind picked up, just enough to offer respite from the heat of her own blood. She thought of what she had read in the book

 

The cheapest way to summon a daedra would be to distort the tie to his point of origin, setting it instead in the vast waters of oblivion, the blackness between planes. Of course, it meant that once dismissed, the daedra would suffer a potentially murderous death, getting dissolved in the blackness. Was it ethical? Did it matter to be ethical when dealing with daedra, those who, for most of them, didn’t care at all for ethics when it came to their treatment of mortals? Was it really worth it to care for them?

 

Vazil looked towards the Dremora, whose slumped shape seemed sad in the glum evening light. Despite what he was, he was a person just as much as she was - limited and different, but his emotions and sensations of pain were just as valid as her own. And so what if his kind delighted in the slaughter of her kind? Wouldn’t she be entirely the same if she followed the advice from the book?

 

No, no she wouldn’t be the same. It wasn’t like she’d take pleasure in the act the same way daedra would. At most, she’d be a little bit sorry and, after a while, completely indifferent.

 

What did that say of her, then? What did that make her? Perhaps the ethics in play weren’t at all about how horrible the targets of her treatment were, but all about her? Who she was,  _ what _ she was, her values, her goals… but then, perhaps Seran hadn’t been entirely wrong in what he had told her. Perhaps what he had done was only a reflection of what she had already done - and enjoyed doing - to the many daedra she had pulled through Oblivion all the way to Nirn? And if that was the case, perhaps she was a monster, after all. And if she were, why play this game of pretense, in which she was to be an individual of integrity on the path of ethical justice?

 

She wanted to be a Master of Conjuration, did she not?

 

Then, for the cause of knowledge, she would have to try the technique. Who was to say it wasn’t a whole lot of horseshit, anyway? She had to try. On a lesser daedra, she decided. Something to which pain wasn’t much of a bother. Something very minor.


End file.
